


my blood alone remains

by houselannister



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beautiful Golden Fools, F/M, French Revolution, marie antoinette - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21960241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houselannister/pseuds/houselannister
Summary: "The Austrian Princess is barely fourteen when she leaves her homeland for France. She speaks very little French, and is wilful, stubborn and capricious. She leaves Vienna with an escort of two thousand men, loyal Austrian soldiers."A Jaime/Cersei French Revolution AU.
Relationships: Cersei Lannister & Jaime Lannister, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister
Comments: 16
Kudos: 51





	my blood alone remains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cersc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cersc/gifts).



> A gift for the sweetest curly blonde on this goddamned planet. This piece is for the Camp lannister Secret Santa, and I couldn't be prouder of everyone for joining.  
> Merry Christmas, Scar! Hope you like it.  
> (Thank you Jaime, *our* Jaime, for the support whenever I was doubtful.)

The Austrian Princess is barely fourteen when she leaves her homeland for France. She speaks very little French, and is wilful, stubborn and capricious. She leaves Vienna with an escort of two thousand men, loyal Austrian soldiers. When the Princess looks out the window of her carriage, she notices the blonde boy riding his horse in his uniform, right beside her.

“Are you tired, brother?” she asks.

The boy’s hands are bleeding: they have been riding for a whole day. He smiles a smile that looks just like hers. “We’re almost there,” he responds.

“You could sleep, Jaime,” she offers. “I would let you rest your head upon my knees. No one would need to know.”

The boy called Jaime glances inside the carriage, where his sister’s tutor doesn’t look too happy. “Your royal highness, that is not appropriate,” the old man intervenes.

The princess tilts her head. “I did not ask.” She looks mildly inconvenienced at the idea of being told what she can or cannot do. “My brother is a Prince. He can do as he pleases. As can I.”

The tutor pushes his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “B-but your highness-” he stutters.

Jaime cuts the argument short. “I’m not sleepy, Cersei,” he lies. “Besides, I can see the French.”

“Where, Jaime? Oh, where?!” Cersei tries to look into the distance, but his tutor pulls her back into the carriage. “I just can’t wait to see Versailles. They say it’s the most beautiful palace in the world.”

“Not as beautiful as Hofburg, surely.”

“And the Prince,” she insists, dreamy, “How I hope he will be handsome!”

“Not as handsome as me, surely,” Jaime says, arrogant.

Cersei looks at him with a mischievous glint. “He will be way more handsome than you,” she jokes. The tutor clears his throat and Cersei sighs, sitting back properly against the soft cushions. “I can’t wait to be Queen,” she murmurs. Jaime doesn’t hear that.

“You need to be a good Princess first,” the tutor reminds her.

“You are so boring, Maester Creylen,” Cersei laments, smoothing the creases on her gown. When she wants, she can look regal, more regal than anyone around her.

A cry from the head of the column. “We have arrived!”

That day, Cersei stops being the Austrian princess. After being stripped of her Austrian clothes and jewelry, she dons French velvet and French gold.

When she comes out of the pavilion, she is the future Queen of France.

It’s 1772.

* * *

Versailles is everything she hoped it would be, and the first days at the palace are joyful. The Prince is handsome – long silver hair, tall and lean, and gentle. He speaks to her in a soft voice, he sings and plays the harp. It is a dream come true. The palace, with its gardens and fountains, is not a playground, but it does look even grander than Hofsburg.

The Prince’s father, the King, is not gentle or beloved. Cersei often hears them whisper behind his back – “ _He has gone mad_ ,” they say. Cersei thinks the King is rude and sometimes he sneers at her. Also, he doesn’t seem to like her father, the King of Austria all that much. _Why did he ask for me, then, as a bride for his firstborn son?_ Cersei often wonders. Queen Rhaella’s eyes are always sad, the few times she comes out of her quarters.

Girls her age surround Cersei at all time. They are the daughters of the women of the court, highborn and poised. They will do anything for her, the future Queen. Cersei is young, but knows all about the ways of court – favours make the world go round, and these young girls are not her real friends. Still, she bathes in their attention, cherishes the worshipping. She does not delude herself: they do not love her. Only Jaime loves her, but his place is in Hofsburg, where their father is training him: when the time comes, and their father dies, Jaime will sit on the throne of Austria, with a wife and children of his own.

She has not seen him in weeks. It is the longest they have been apart. It feels empty without him, but she tries to distract herself with games, clothes, jewellery, and matinees at the Opera. She fills her head with thoughts of the Prince, whom she will marry in a month’s time, on the night of Christmas Eve.

But Christmas Eve never comes.

On the night of December 1st, an army of thousands stands before the castle. Their armours are black and gold. They have painted a stag upon their shields.

Cersei watches them from her balcony, in the distance, fists clenched over the striped marble. She is afraid, for the first time in her life. In the blink of an eye, her future disappears before her very eyes: she will not marry the Prince, she will not be Queen of France. They try to drag her inside, but she refuses to move. She will die, today, and she is only fifteen years old. She is very aware of the blood running through her veins, and the heart beating in her chest. She wonders what it will be like when it’s all over.

The King’s voice echoes across the halls of Versailles, as the young Prince rides to battle. Cersei watches him, on his white horse and shining black armour, an army in tow. Young men riding to their death, she thinks. _Perhaps they’ll win_ , she allows herself the luxury of hope. The prince doesn’t even turn around to glance at his future bride. Perhaps he knows there will be no return from that journey. No point wasting his time on a girl who will soon be dead.

“Your Highness, I beg you to come inside,” her tutor says, pleading. “We need to--”

“Run?” Cersei interrupts him. “Hide like kittens? I am Cersei of house Lannister. I am the Princess of Austria, if nothing else. That, they cannot take from me. I will not run.”

The sun has not yet set when the battle begins. Far into the distance she can see the clash, hear the clanging metal, the crying men. Cersei cannot tell who is winning but, little by little, she notices the human sea becoming golden as the Targaryen forces stand decimated.

A small sigh escapes her lips. She slides to the ground, her back to the balcony. The puffy skirt pools around her, and she drowns in emerald green as well. Her eyes are welling up but she will not let them see her cry. Inside, her friends are huddled together. _They will look to me for strength_ , she thinks.

How can she be strong when she is about to die?

“Open the gates!”

She recognizes the voice. _Have I gone mad?_ She drags herself on her feet once more, quickly, eagerly. There he is, all dressed in golden armour on his horse, before the gates of her chateau. “Brother,” she whispers, and she clutches her chest, where her heart suddenly has a chance to keep beating. “Oh, Jaime,” she picks up her gown just as the Frenchmen open the gates and he launches in a gallop across the courtyard.

Cersei spins on her heels and runs inside. “It’s Jaime,” she tells her companions. “Jaime is here! My father is here!”

She opens the heavy doors, ignoring her tutor’s protests. She’s not going to die, she is going to live. She runs down the corridor, and she sees herself in the mirrors that adorn the walls, running alongside her. Hall after hall, painted in the sunset glow, she runs. Versailles is empty and silent, the only noise that could be heard that of her heels and her elaborated breath as she keeps running.

It doesn’t strike her as strange that the King has stopped bellowing.

It doesn’t, until she enters the throne room and she sees him lying down, in a pool of his own deep red blood. Jaime’s sword is covered in blood as well, as he stands over the body, face contorted in anger. Cersei sees the blade shake in her brother’s hands.

“Jaime,” she calls out. He looks up, drops the sword. Cersei runs to him, wraps her arms around his shoulders. He holds her by the waist, tighter than her corset even, which was always too tight to begin with. But she pulls back fairly quick. “What news of the Prince?”

“Slain.”

“Oh.” Cersei’s arms fall at her sides. “So I won’t be Queen of France?”

Jaime hesitates. “You will,” he said, though he looks sad. “But to another.”

Cersei’s eyes go wide as she cups his face and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Who will it be then? You?”

Naïve. It isn’t Jaime.

On the night of December 24th Cersei marries Robert Baratheon. More importantly, she becomes Queen. The tiara on her head is heavy but she cherishes the weight. The new king is not quite as handsome as her Targaryen Prince, but he is strong and powerful and he takes her by the end and they kneel before the eyes of God and the court as they promise to rule the country wisely.

That is more that the prince has ever done for her.

The feast is one that will be remembered for centuries. There are lights in the sky at night, and jugglers, and fire-breathing artists. There are peacocks strolling about, and doves are freed around midnight. The wine flows, abundant, and Cersei feels lightheaded when she stumbles upon her brother at the end of the night. He looks sullen, pale.

“Why aren’t you happy for me?” she asks.

“I am,” he lies. “Terribly happy.”

Cersei links her arms with his and the pair walk across the garden, leaving the most of the party behind. The water in the fountains splashes the silk of the dress as the pass one by. “I saw you and Father arguing earlier. Why?”

Jaime hesitates. “Can I ask you something?”

“You know how I hate it when you don’t answer my questions.”

Jaime scoffs, uses his grip on her arm to drag her out of sight, hidden between the greenery of the chateau. He presses her against a tree, places a hand on her mouth to keep her silent. “Father wants me to marry. I never want to leave you again,” he says, his forehead presses against hers. “I don’t want to be King.”

It’s been years since the last time they spoke of this. They were young, and Jaime had told her he wanted to marry her. He had said they would rule over Austria together. Their father had silenced him with the back of his hand. Yet, at night, when Jaime found his way into her bedroom…

“Jaime,” she lets out when he moves his hand and lets her speak. “There’s a way…” She trails off. She almost can’t bring herself to say it out loud. “Renounce the crown.” Cersei feels his cock stirring. His hands are at her waist, keeping her from running. Like she could ever run from him. “Stay,” she says. “Be mine.”

Jaime presses his lips to hers briefly. “I can’t.” He takes a step back, but Cersei grabs his hands and holds him close like they did when they were children. Like they did every time before their father discovered their bizarre playtime. Like they did before everyone around them told them it was wrong.

“Tonight is my wedding night,” she whispers in his ear, stroking his golden hair. With his face buried in her neck, she can’t see his displeasure, but she _feels_ it: his hands find a place over her hips, possessive. “If I have to bleed, let it be for you, not for him.”

And she does.

It’s 1774.

* * *

Jaime renounces the Austrian crown and stays by his sister’s side: the only reason their Father doesn’t go to war to get his rightful heir back is he knows Jaime is not held captive. Knowing his son renounced his future of his own volition seals their fate.

Jaime is named Captain of the Guards. The King does not suspect a thing: he is too busy ruling a kingdom he does not want to rule, and mourning a dead girl that never loved him. Cersei feels spurned and outrage makes you reckless.

The fruit of their recklessness is born nineteen months later and Cersei has never seen that much blood in her life, not even upon Jaime’s return from battle. She cries out for her mother as half the court watches her struggle. There’s almost no air left in the room when Jaime bursts in.

“Open the window,” he bellows, uncaring of the bewildered stares. He’s breaking protocol by being in the room. No one is allowed inside, not even the King. “Open the window! Can’t you see she can’t breathe!?”

“Captain!” The nurse reprimands him, “You cannot see--”

“Can’t I?” He asks, “Which one of _you_ is going to keep me out?”

Cersei yells as another painful pang rips through her. Jaime’s arms are around her before she can call out for him. Her hands, feverish, found his and squeeze as she pushes again, and again. A gentle breeze has picked up, causing a small shiver on her sweaty skin. “Jaime, I can’t-” she whispers.

“You _must_.”

The sun sets, hours later, and the first cry of the Dauphin of France is welcomed by the thunderous applause of the whole chateau. A blissful Cersei holds the small, squalling baby in her arms. She wonders how something so pure and perfect could be real. How it could be _hers_. They name him Joffrey. The King arrives well into the night, wraps a pelt around her shoulder and kisses her forehead. Then he tries to hold the infant: it’s clear the child doesn’t like him. He only stops crying when the King gives him back to Cersei.

“It’s quite normal, sire,” a sycophant says.

No one seems to notice the stark contrast between the King’s rough black hair and the child’s few strands of golden hair.

At night, everyone leaves the Queen’s quarters, save for her maids and Jaime, standing guard at her door inside the bedchamber. In the glowing candlelight, she watches him lean heavily against the wall, as sleep threatens to overcome him. “You could sleep,” she says. “I would let you rest your head upon my knees. No one would need to know.”

Her brother smiles, remembering the day they crossed the border for the first time. It’s a sad smile. They both know he cannot do that. Not that it ever stopped them, but tonight is too important. Tonight she has given France a heir, a Dauphin. The future King of France. She has never been more a Queen than she is today, even though she has always been a Queen to him.

Joffrey starts cooing softly from his carved crib. Cersei struggles under the sheets, the aftermath of birth. The cooing turns to crying. The wet nurse is in the room right away. “No,” she says, seeing the woman approaching the crib. “I will feed him myself.”

“You Highness, it’s inappr--”

“Your Queen said she will feed the child herself.” Jaime’s voice, from the shadows by the door, and the flash of his blade. “Leave.”

Leave she does, and in great haste.

“Give him to me, brother,” Cersei asks, as the child’s laments grow louder. “Quick, before he wakes the whole of Versailles,” she adds with a hint of pride and a satisfied grin.

As Jaime approaches the crying baby, he hesitates looking down in the crib. It’s a mystery, to him, how no one sees there’s nothing of the King in the child. His eyes are green. His hair is blonde. His cheeks are the same colour as peaches in summer. Jaime wagers Joffrey is a sweet sight, but aren’t all infants supposed to be? He does not quite get the hysteria, nor the manic state his sister seems to be under. He lifts him up, takes note that he weighs next to nothing compared to the times he’s held Cersei up, fucking her.

There is a moment, though. A brief, fleeting moment and the child’s eyes pierce him.

“Give him to me,” Cersei insists, breaking the spell. Jaime hands her the child, _his_ child. “He is handsome, isn’t he?” She looks so terribly enamoured with the baby Jaime cannot help the pang of jealousy. _It_ latches onto her nipple, sucking on it.

A parasite, sucking the life from her, barely seventeen years old.

It’s September 1776.

* * *

The flames of Revolution threaten to devour the Americas, and France’s interests must be protected. The Queen’s brother is part of the battalion that leaves Versailles, headed overseas to put an end to the revolts.

The sun shines on the troops. The King of France pins the French colours on Jaime’s chest and hugs him like a brother. The wind picks up. The Queen’s gown rustles as she watches the scene from afar. She is not allowed the luxury of saluting her own brother. Her hands caress her stomach, where his seed grows once more.

It’s 1779.

* * *

Life at court without Jaime is awful. The time she does not spend worrying over her brother’s fate she spends fighting with her husband, her son’s tutor, her new-born daughter’s wet nurse. It’s clear she can’t feed her herself, she simply has _no milk_ , but she insists, and the child starves because the latches on and finds nothing. For Cersei it feels like a defeat. What sort of mother can’t feed her own daughter?

Joffrey is seven years old. He is strong for his age, fierce. She tries to deflect whenever someone brings up the boy’s innate cruel nature. “He is just a boy,” she argues, “He doesn’t know right from wrong. It’s your job to teach him, isn’t it?” And just like so, she fires tutor after tutor, refusing to see that the fault lies in her own child. (Admitting that would mean admitting something is wrong with her, because where else could a child that young learn cruelty if not at his mother’s teat?)

The one thing she finds comfort in is frivolous pleasures. Most of the nights, she spends gambling a kingdom at cards, drinking surrounded by men who would kill in order to win her favour. She finds it useful: without Jaime, she finds court to be hostile, and most people to be foes. She feels alone, drowning in her own petty schemes and vendettas. Court politics can be dangerous: bored, rich people can ruin each other’s lives quite efficaciously.

The King no longer does anything to hide his disdain for her. He barely claims his spousal rights, which she’s glad for. She has never quite liked the act itself, save for when it is with Jaime. All the other times have been… inconvenient, a messy affair with no pleasure or otherwise gain. Cersei could live without the grunting and the mauling that left her sore in the morning. She has done her duty; she has given birth to a healthy child who will bring glory to France when he is old enough to take his father’s place. She has earned her right to live and have fun. This is what she tells herself, as she squanders the country’s assets on silks and extravagant hats.

Meanwhile, Paris is starving.

They never liked her. She was always a foreign to them, a foreign Queen. In recent years, she’s become the _Austrian bitch_. Her most vocal detractors have taken to writing, filling Paris with leaflets of the Queen’s lascivious behaviour and her secret correspondence with her Austrian family. A few leaflets have even suggested the young Dauphin is not the King’s natural son, but rather the result of one of Cersei’s many affairs.

What could she possibly have done to earn their hatred? She has always smiled when she was asked to, curtseyed when she had to. She gave them an heir, gave them a Queen as beautiful and gracious as France itself. Yet, they hate her now.

After a few years she stops caring about the people.

As she lounges in the large bathtub, she hears about the revolts in the city. When she asks about it, a servant explains: “People are hungry, Your Highness,” they tell her. “They don’t have any bread.”

Cersei slides further underneath the bubbles, with a grimace. A sigh, and her head rolls back on the edge of the tub.

“Then let them eat brioche,” she whispers, smiling.

It’s 1783.

* * *

The American Revolution has ended for months, yet Cersei has received no news of Jaime. No news could mean anything, but Cersei is stubborn. “He would not go without me,” she tells her husband the King when he dares suggesting she prepare for the worst.

Her name is dragged through the mud because of a cursed necklace she knows absolutely nothing about. The trial ends in her acquittal, but her reputation is tainted forever. The peasants have a new reason to hate her: not only is she an Austrian whore, she is a liar as well, who cares so little about the people, she would let them die to cover her mistakes.

The truth is she does not know who bought that necklace in her name, nor who forged those documents with her signature. But they don’t care about that. They _want_ to hate her. They _need_ to hate her, because every martyr needs someone to blame.

Cersei is strong enough to stand it all: her husband’s reproach, her people’s insults, the court’s whisperings behind her back, the backstabbing and the betrayal of her dearest friends as she loses grip of her own castle.

She is strong enough.

Until a pneumonia takes the Dauphin from her.

It’s December 31st, 1784.

* * *

It takes Jaime a full year to return to France. Just before the end of the revolution he is wounded. Gangrene eats his right hand and there’s no saving it. After the amputation, he is struck by fever, and it takes him a couple of interminable months to recover his full strength. It doesn’t help that without his hand he feels half a man, and is not sure he wants his sister to see him like that. Perhaps it would be more honourable if she thought him dead on the battlefield. That way she would remember him as the man he’s always been, rather than the pathetic crippled shadow he is now.

It’s the thought of holding her again that carries him to the ship. When they set sail, he watches the American continent disappear behind them, and with it the man he used to be. It’s a long way home, but eventually they touch Spanish ground. It takes them a couple more months to march to Versailles. The France they find is quite different from the France they left. Poverty and disease have reached peaks unheard of.

They are drinking ale in a small tavern in Chartres when they hear that the Dauphin has died. Jaime has barely any time to react. Outside, a young man is addressing the public with livid words. Jaime and his men keep to the side-lines. He speaks of freedom, equality and goodwill. He launches a vicious attack against the Queen, denouncing her vices and costly habits. Jaime has to remind himself of his own missing hand: on his better days he might have taken on a crowd on his own, but that’s no longer the case. He watches his soldiers; he knows most of them harbour anti-monarchic feelings after the war. Many have lost limbs – just like him – and more. So he bites his tongue.

“Who is he?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“A lawyer,” an old man says. “His name is Robespierre.”

“Robespierre,” Jaime mutters, tasting the name.

They enter Versailles and find it covered in snow. As hundreds of horses cross the small town, leaving prints in the snow, Jaime knows something is wrong. Most people watch them pass and lock their doors upon their passage. It seems only yesterday they dropped flowers on the ground as they passed, saluting them as saviours of the homeland. Robespierre’s words come to mind as the chateau de Versailles comes into view. A black drape hangs from the central balcony.

He rushes into the small chapel.

It's January 1st, 1785.

* * *

Tommen is born nine months later, on a sunny morning. It hurts less than it did with Joffrey, and less than it did with Myrcella. Without Joffrey, Tommen is soon hailed as the new Dauphin. Cersei does not love him quite as much as she loved Joffrey. Cersei fears she will never love _anyone_ as much as she loved Joffrey. Nevertheless, she is a Queen and has no time to mourn. France is crumbling before their very eyes, and her husband’s ministers keep pointing the finger and blaming her for the current state of affairs.

Cersei tries to dodge one attack after another, deeply convinced one woman on her own could not possibly unleash such ruination upon a country. Her mistakes were not any graver than the ones of her predecessors. Did she spend more than Aerys? Was she less politically perceptive than Rhaegar? Was she more unfaithful than Robert was? No, no and no.

And Jaime… Jaime is different. He has returned to her a different man, a pale ghost of the golden lion he used to be. Now that she needs him most he is useless. Along with his hand, they hacked the best part of him. He has not listened to any of her prayers since he has returned: he renounces his post as Captain of the Guards, deciding he cannot possibly serve without a right hand.

“If you are not a soldier, what are you?” she asks rather rudely when he announces his decision. They lie in the grass, in a secluded garden nearby the Petit Trianon, a small palace in the ground of the chateau built just for her.

“I guess I’ll find out,” he says, staring up at the blue summer sky while caressing her hair.

“You can never leave me,” she commands, sitting up quite suddenly. Jaime’s eyes can’t help following the curve of her breasts, swollen from maternity. “If you leave, I’ll die.”

“I have left,” he reminds her, fingers gliding up her spine, grazing the tip of her blonde hair. “And you are still alive.”

“You don’t understand,” she presses on, pulling a robe over her naked body. Jaime sighs at the loss of her naked body. “They hate me. They all hate me. They’d sooner see me dead than renounce their preposterous claims.”

“If you’d been to Paris recently, you might see their claims are not so preposterous after all.”

Cersei is shell-shocked. “God created us to lead,” she breathes.

Jaime laughs, lacing up his breeches. “You don’t even believe in God.”

Cersei swallows. What he just said is punishable by death. “It is what it is,” she counters instead, standing up with haste. “And you might do well to remember that.”

No one is better than his sister is at ignoring the things that inconvenience her and her privileges.

That same night a footboy carries a letter from his brother Tyrion. Tywin is dead. Their uncle Kevan has ascended to the throne of Austria. Tyrion has travelled to Italy, attempting to escape those who would rather see him dead than sitting on the throne that had belonged to Tywin. His youngest brother also makes a point of urging him to leave Cersei’s side. The post scriptum of Tyrion’s letter reads: “ _Our sister’s liaisons are the topic of conversation throughout Europe.”_

Still he does not leave.

It’s 1786.

* * *

The King is depressed. Truly so, because in his time of need he turns to his wife more often, seeking her advice. He never has, but it seems he’s afraid of what is happening around them. Reports from Paris have come back, it seems more and more noblemen are being attacked in their carriages, dragged to the streets, torn limb by limb to make an example out of them. The first thought that comes to Cersei’s mind is she will not be able to go to the Opera any longer, and she so loved the Opera.

They like her meddling with politics even less than when she didn’t. Every time she advices the King in one direction, the people around him nudge him in the opposite one, fearful that she might have a secret agenda. She does not: she does not want to die, but she also does not want to give in to the requests of the people. By abiding, they would show weakness, and if they show weakness then they are no fit to rule a blind man, let alone a blind country.

The attacks against her persona grow more vicious, more frequent. The lies, the lies , the lies: suddenly she is guilty of organizing orgies within the walls of Versailles. She would not. _It has never been good with anyone but Jaime_. They call her Madame Deficit, a ludicrous name to say she bankrupted the country. Her spending surely did nothing to help France’s debts, but neither did the rest of the court. But she is the Queen. Don’t children always blame their mothers? And isn’t a Queen a mother to the people?

She doesn’t think much of it all the same.

“You seem preoccupied,” she mentions, studying her red lips in the small hand mirror. Jaime is sitting on the chaise longue, in his new clothes, toying with black grapes. She is so used to seeing him in armour she almost doesn’t recognize him with the new attire. “What is it?”

“Reports from Paris,” he mutters, popping the grape into his mouth. “The civil unrest is…”

“Stop concerning yourself with that, Jaime,” she says, fixing a fake mole by her upper lip. “Peasants will do what peasants do, complain.” She doesn’t like the way her brother is looking at her now, like she is so completely out of touch that she does not see the gravity of the situation. Quite the contrary: doesn’t he realize no one knows a country better than its Queen? Not even the King. Certainly not a disgraced Austrian Prince without a hand.

Still, she feels lonely, and Jaime is not an asset she can afford to lose now.

She picks up her gown and walks up to him.

“Sir, there are more pressing matters we should concern ourselves with,” she offers with a mischievous smirk. “You could make your Queen happy. Or…” she crouches between his knees, “your Queen could make _you_ happy.” Her hand goes to unfasten his breeches, but Jaime halts her. He halts her with his stump, which makes her recoil. “Very well, then. If you are so in love with that pathetic little town, I shall give it to you.”

By royal decree, Jaime is forced to return to service. His battalion is assigned to Paris. He leaves Versailles and Cersei doesn’t even make an appearance to say goodbye. A man with no hand, Austrian and brother to the Queen, in Paris has little to no chance of surviving.

Surely she must have known that, and she sent him away all the same.

Eventually, The King has no alternative but to bring back the Estates General. Cersei is strongly against the decision, she screams that God has chosen _them_ to reign, and by giving away even the smallest amount of that God-given right is to challenge God himself. No one listens.

She tells them it will only make them braver.

No one listens.

It’s August 8th, 1788.

* * *

Jaime is there when the Bastille falls.

He has barely got the time to wonder where those peasants might have gotten cannons before he realizes many of the Garde Nationale have defected and joined the revolution. Some of them, he fought alongside in the Americas. Some of them used to be his companions, his soldiers. _Every man for himself_ , Jaime thinks as one of the towers collapses. He knows, as they storm the place, that their time in this world is over. That they, as monarchs, have failed whatever God his sister used to speak of. If it ever existed.

Part of him knows he should ride to Versailles now. He knows they will come for Cersei and the King next. Briefly he thinks about his children, Tommen and Myrcella, and what sort of fate they might suffer at the hands of the population. What could he do, without a hand? Did Cersei not mean for him to die in Paris, when she sent him out there?

Alongside few surviving royalists, he manages to escape the crowd. In the night, they hide along the Seine, tripped of all markings that would single them out as noblemen. There, huddled by the fire, they mix with the poor and the starved. Jaime sees children the same age as Tommen shivering in the cold, malnourished and sick. Many of them cough blood and their mothers hold them.

He has a fleeting memory of the chapel and Cersei’s grief over the loss of her firstborn. A mother is still a mother, after all. Could the tragedy be spared, if they knew how similar they were?

“What are you going to do?” Addam Marbrand asks him when no one listens. “Are you going back to Versailles?”

 _They know_. He chuckles bitterly. _Fools that we are, we thought no one knew_. He wants to go back to Versailles, he wants to drag Cersei away from that place. It corrupted her. It’s made her fickle, dishonest. They could go back to Hofburg, if Kevan would have them, where she was nothing but a young princess, and all her smiles were for him. They would flee from the revolution, from France. They would be free.

“No,” he says, “She would not follow.”

It’s July 14th, 1789.

* * *

Many abandon Versailles. Many that have sworn loyalty and eternal friendship turn out to be the first to go. Cersei refuses to leave. She is Queen of France and Navarre. If they come for her, they will find her waiting. She will not hide like a coward. It reminds her of a time when she was fifteen and waiting for the Targaryen army to fall, and for justice to be carried out. Back then, Jaime had come instead, and saved her. Perhaps he will come once more, ride in on his white steed and bring good tidings.

He does not.

“What news of the revolts?” she remembers her husband asking once, during breakfast, to the few people that remain.

A silence, then one brave man stepping forward. “Your Highness, it’s not a revolt,” Cersei hears, “It’s a revolution.”

Two months go by and even though the reports from Paris are dreary, life at courts goes on for the few aristocrats left. They delude themselves into thinking perhaps this will blow over, that maybe the so-called _revolution_ will never quite truly reach Versailles, it will never quite truly reach _them_. But eventually, the Revolution comes under the guise of women clamouring for bread. They storm the gates, their anger is unstoppable. In their faces, Cersei sees the strength of their resolution, and she knows this time she must concede, else she will die.

She is not afraid of dying, but she doesn’t particularly want to.

The Royal family is moved to the Tuileries Palace. They are not allowed to leave the Palace, save for very few events. They are still King and Queen, though how long that will last Cersei does not know. She can feel power slipping through her fingers, and she refuses to let go. In secrecy, she builds a network of connections on the outside, fellow noblemen who would see monarchy restored to its full powers. She knows the favours she reaps today will be inconvenient in the future, but it’s all she’s got right now. Her husband is worthless, and someone has to be the _King_. She will be Queen and king if necessary.

She hears of an alliance of sorts, formed amidst European monarchs. They intend to invade France, free her and her husband, and squash the revolution. Deep inside, she thinks there must be Jaime behind all that. He would not leave her, no, he would build an army and rescue her. That sounds like something he would do.

Still, Cersei refuses to wait and do nothing. Instead, she manages to strike an important alliance. Qyburn is a liberal aristocrat bent on finding a middle ground and reconcile the Revolution with the monarchy, and with his help it seems even the angry mobs begin to find the monarchs less spiteful. On the anniversary of the fall of the Bastille, Cersei and the King return to Paris for the celebration. When the King swears an oath to protect the Nation and the laws voted by the Constitutional Assembly, someone yells, “Long live the King!”

The Queen is welcomed by tepid cheers.

There is no sign of an European alliance anywhere. There is no sign of Jaime, either. It’s been one full year.

_If he were dead I would know it._

It’s July 14th, 1790.

* * *

The Tuileries Palace is very different from Versailles. It is less luxurious, yes, but mostly it feels less safe. There was something about Versailles: it always made her feel protected. In hindsight, it might have been the fact that she knew her brother was there. Now, without Jaime, she feels lost and vulnerable, which she hates. She can’t rely on her husband, nor the guards standing by her doors. They told her it is for her own safety, but Cersei knows better: they are moles, spies. Everything she does will be reported to the outside, to be judged by her unkind audience.

Another year goes by. The friendship with Qyburn turns out to bear fruits. Most of the King’s powers are slowly reinstated, in spite of the protests of many at the Assembly. For the first time, Cersei sees a glimmer of hope.

It’s a summer night, the windows are open to let the breeze in. Her hair is stuck to her nape. She only has one fan, and not even one of her best. Ever since she ditched the large gowns and wigs, she feels less burdened. She forgot the texture of her own hair, and she has taken to brush it more frequently now. She caresses her hair and is reminded of Jaime’s.

She didn’t think it was possible to miss someone as much as she misses him. His presence would make the situation more bearable. If only she could touch his face once more, kiss his lips, be held by him…

A thud by the door. Cersei leaps to her feet, as does the King. Something is not right. She rushes to Myrcella and Tommen, holds them close as the door bursts open and a corpse falls to the ground, his neck bent at a weird angle. Cersei gasps, backs into the wall dragging Tommen and Myrcella with her. A man steps in, his identity shrouded by a cloak and a hood.

“What do you want?” the King asks. He stands between the stranger and his family. For the first time in the past two years since the Revolution Cersei hears a shred of regal dignity in his voice.

“To save you,” the man says.

Cersei’s knees wobble as she hears the voice she recognizes. She falls to the ground, the weight of all that has happened threatening to crush her to the ground. She starts to weep, two years’ worth of tears. Tommen and Myrcella look scared. Jaime pushes his hood back, slips past the King and kneels next to his sister. She looks up, watches him over Tommen’s blonde hair. She smiles a tearful, thankful smile. He nods, helping her up. “Let’s go,” he tells the King.

On their way out, Cersei holds Myrcella’s hand and tells her not to look as they walk. Jaime carries Tommen. The king follows. Jaime knows Cersei would not leave him behind: it’s not like she’s grown fond of him, she just clings to the source of her influence. Without him, she is nothing. He is the King, after all. The way to the carriage is short, paved with corpses. Jaime’s men watch them go by. Some bow their heads in outdated respect and some clean their daggers of the guards’ blood. Cersei has forgotten what reverie feels like.

“Where are we going?” the King asks, jumping in the carriage.

“Montmédy,” Jaime says, handing the Dauphin to his _father_. He helps Myrcella in the carriage as well. Cersei is the last one, and she hesitates before stepping in. “Some of your family are there, Your Highness,” Jaime tells the King. Then he turns to his sister. “You will be safe there.”

“What about you?”

“I need to stay behind and be sure no one follows you.”

“No,” she says right away. “No, you must come with us. You’ll die if you stay here. Jaime, no!” Cersei’s growing panicked and her voice louder. It’s dangerous and Jaime presses a hand to her mouth. He has to wonder if she ever stopped crying ever since they left the room, because her eyes fill with tears again. They stare at each other for a long while. Jaime nods, slowly. Cersei whimpers, hands grappling for his shirt.

“You need to go,” he insists, wrenching her off him. He turns to the King. “Grab her.”

“No!” Cersei yells.

“Grab her!” Jaime bellows at the King. “Grab her, before it’s too late! You have to go _now_!”

“NO!” Cersei struggles, fights her husband’s strength with ferocious impetus of her own, but he drags her into the carriage all the same. She tries to leap, tries to grab Jaime’s hand, but he closes the door, locks her inside. “Jaime, no! Jaime! Come with us, Jaime!” She’s banging her fists against the carriage door, nails scratching the fine carved wood.

“Go!” Jaime yells at the carriage driver.

He has never seen her quite so desperate, and if that has to be the last thing he knows before he dies… there are worse ways to go than to do so knowing you are loved.

As the carriage disappears into the distance and Cersei’s screams fade, Jaime swallows the bitter tears. Soon they will be here. All they need to do is hold them off for twenty-four hours. Give the carriage time to reach Varennes.

It’s June 21st, 1791.

* * *

The failure of their escape means two things for the King and the Queen.

The first is that the relationship with the people is broken beyond repair. As they are brought back to Paris, a silent crowd welcomes them. Cersei watches those faces and sees death in their eyes. Their accommodations change drastically after their attempt. Now under strict surveillance, their privacy is reduced to zero. Guards follow Cersei wherever she goes, and they won’t even allow her to close her door when she sleeps.

What was once a residence is now a prison. Cersei stops cooperating with the leaders of the Revolution, thus creating a divide that can no longer be filled. As a form of protest, she convinces her husband, the King, to exercise his right of veto, effectively paralyzing the works of the Revolution. They begin to call her _Madame Veto_ , mockingly.

News reach her that her brother Tyrion has reconquered the throne of Austria. No help will come to her from him, she knows. Still, the new Emperor is seen as a threat for the sole reason of their relation. France declares war on Austria, a preventive action in order to prevent the new Dwarf Emperor from saving his sister. This new war between her two homelands only worsens the mob’s feelings towards her.

The second concern that ails the Queen is the fate of her other brother. No one has seen Jaime since that fateful night. People say most of his men were butchered in the attempt to cover the royal family’s escape. Cersei decides if Jaime were dead they would parade his head across the whole town. That has not happened. That, and she _knows_ deep inside he is still alive. She feels it still. Feels _him_ , still.

The war between France and Austria, alongside Cersei’s active obstruction of the Assembly culminate in the storming of the Tuileries Palace by an angry mob. Cersei, her husband and their children are moved to The Temple, an actual prison. Their conditions are quite worse than the Tuileries, and a far cry from Versailles.

The monarchy is abolished.

The King is tried and executed.

It’s January 21st, 1793.

* * *

They stop calling her _Your Highness_ after that. With the death of her husband and the death of monarchy, she is now nothing but a widow. An important one, some might say, crucial to the fate of Revolution, but a widow all the same. The treatment reserved for them is cruel. The guards manhandle them quite often, even the children. She is allowed one woman for company, but Cersei refuses. She does not need sympathy, nor pity.

With the death of her husband, hope for herself abandons her. All her attentions are for her children. She still has hope Tommen might one day ascend to the throne. They would not harm a child that young, she tells herself right until the moment they take him from her. It’s a low blow, the last Cersei can stand. After they take Tommen, some of her spark goes out. There’s little life left in her, but she still fights.

In her cell, all her days look the same. She gets up in the morning, brushes her hair and Myrcella’s. They break their fast together. Myrcella is allowed to read only a few selected books chosen by the Assembly, while Cersei is given needles and thread. She uses them because the alternative is staring at the wall – which would be more entertaining anyway. Every time she sticks the pin in, she likes to think she is sticking it in Robespierre’s right eye.

One night they move her to an isolated cell in the Conciergerie. They call her _Prisoner 280._ That is what she is now, a number. She used to be Queen of France and Navarre, though. They can never take that away from her. The new cell is smaller than the one before. She asks about her daughter, but they don’t give her any information. She wears a simple robe. Her golden hair has gone white sometime after the flight to Varennes. When she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror she does not recognize herself. She does not see Jaime either. Perhaps that’s what hurts her most.

She stands trial. No one, in the courtroom, is sympathetic. The main charges against her consist of conspiracy, depletion of the national treasury and high treason because of her secret activities to aid the Austrian empire. They declare Tommen the new King of France, which fills her heart with glee.

But then they turn her child against her.

It’s October 14th, 1793.

* * *

Through the bars of her small window, the moonlight casts the cell in a baleful glow. She has never been paler. Her hair is in disarray. In the morrow, they will decide what will become of her. That night she prays. For the first time in forever, she asks for deliverance and absolution. She knows where her faults lie, but she can’t help thinking maybe she could be forgiven. If not by men, then by God at least.

Her legs are frail, mostly due to sitting for so long. If she closes her eyes, she remembers what it was like walking by the lake in Versailles. She can feel the warmth of the sun on her skin. She can smell daffodils in the air. She can hear the ruffling of her skirts, and Myrcella’s, as they play in the Petit Trianon. If she focuses long enough she is back at Versailles.

But when she opens her eyes she is back in the Conciergerie, in a cell that does not become her.

And she is a ghost.

“Cersei.”

 _Speaking of ghosts_.

She sees his hands first, gripping the bars. Her eyes narrow. How can it be? It must be a hallucination. They would never allow him to see her. His face is gaunt, he is thinner than he has ever been. His beard is long, the dirt in his hair concealing the blonde she remembers. “Jaime?”

He smiles. They let him in. Cersei wonders why. She does not move. She is still unsure whether he is real. Is it a trick? She recognizes his smell, though, they could not fake that.

She hurls herself at him. “I knew you were alive.”

“Barely,” Jaime replies.

He holds her. It’s not a ghost. He’s real, he’s flesh and bones.

“Where have you been?” she asks, face buried in his chest. He is so thin in her arms, she can feel the bones jutting out. “What have they done to you?” She doesn’t let him reply. “Oh Jaime, I told you. I told you to never leave me. I told you I would die without you.” A part of her feels like there must be a reason he’s here. That God, or whomever in his place, must have a plan for them.

“You were right,” he said.

He speaks to her like he would to a child. He strokes her hair, caresses her back. He is soothing her, reassuring her. Comforting her. When is the last time someone has given her affection? When is the last time they did not spit in her face or laugh at her condition? When is the last time she was a woman, a human being?

Cersei holds onto him like a child to a mother. When she pulls away, she realizes the way he looks at her.

Like it’s the last time he’s ever going to see her.

“They mean to sentence me tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“It won’t be in my favour.”

“It won’t.”

Cersei’s lips are chapped from dehydration and malnourishment. Her skin is papery, her hair thin and frail. She is already half a corpse, she thinks. It pains her that this should be the memory he holds of her. “Why are you here?” Jaime holds her gaze. He was never one to shrink away from his responsibilities. “Who let you in?”

“Qyburn helped. He is on your side, but he is just one man.”

“Then there’s two of you.”

“Against the whole of France.”

Cersei smiles. Curious that it took one woman to unite a whole country. Yet again one more thing men have failed at. She is responsible for the creation of a whole new France.

She doubts anyone will credit her for that, especially the History books. History is never kind to people like her. “What about the European alliance? Tyrion?” There’s no fire in her words. She is merely listing all the things that have failed her by now. It’s a very long list.

“No one’s coming, Cers.” Jaime draws closer. “It’s just you and me.” He cups her cheek.

“It’s always been just you and me.”

Cersei places her hand over his. They have no more tears left, the two of them.

Someone’s outside the door. Cersei tries to look over Jaime’s shoulder, but he holds her still. “Look at me. Just look at me.” Cersei takes a step back. Something’s wrong. He backs her into the wall: it’s not a long distance, the cell is very small. Too small for two lions.

A cage.

The fingers of his good hand wrap around her throat. “I will not let them parade your head through the streets of Paris. I will not have your body rot in an unmarked grave.”

Cersei understands. Her eyes go wide. He half expects her to run but she doesn’t. Instead, her voice is stern. “If I bleed let it be for you, not for them.” He remembers that night, when she bled for him the first time. He doesn’t love her any less.

Jaime nods. palm is firm against her throat, it’s hard to breathe. She gasps for air that doesn’t reach her lungs. She scratches him, kicks and fights. It’s not Cersei, not really. She’s already half dead, she _wants_ to be. These are just reflexes of a body that does not want to stop functioning. Her soul… Her soul is a whole other matter.

It doesn’t take long for her heart to stop beating, with her already frail health. Cersei collapses in his arms, and Jaime cradles her for a long minute before he hears the same noise as before outside the door. He wipes the tears from his eyes before he lets Cersei’s body slid to the ground.

“Don’t let them take our bodies,” Jaime says, standing up.

Addam Marbrand steps forward, sword in hand. He holds it up. “Are you sure?”

“What else is there?” Jaime asks. He steps closer to the point of the blade, adjusting the angle. “It should go straight to the heart. It’ll be quicker.” Addam nods. His hand is shaking. “Oh come on Marbrand, don’t go soft on me. Not now.”

“No sir,” Addam says, wiping a tear with the back of his glove, angrily. “It’s been an honour, Jaime.”

“Fuck honour. I did it for love. Be sure everyone knows that.”

It’s October 15th, 1793.

**Author's Note:**

> A disclaimer: I know the "Let them eat brioche" thing has long since been proven unreliable. However, I do believe it fits cersei Lannister even better than actual Marie Antoinette. So, it just had to stay.


End file.
